


A Desire For Contact with the Battlefield

by mendystar1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock AU, Gen, Prostitute Sherlock, Prostitute!Sherlock, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:43:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mendystar1/pseuds/mendystar1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a prostitute and John just came back from the war and wants some comfort. Not in a sexual way, no, but in the basic-human-contact-way. He just wants to hug and cuddle, feeling the warmth of someone else’s body heat.</p><p>John finds said-basic-human-contact via prostitute because he can’t handle the sad stares of people around him and yeah, he could pick up a girl but they would be questioning on why he wouldn’t want sex with them so he figured a prostitute would be professional and not ask any questions.</p><p>But after a few sessions of John not wanting anything sexual, and just wanting to feel warmth of a human contact so he can no longer get any nightmares, Sherlock is fascinated by the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Soldier

It’s been three weeks since John returned from the war. Returning to London with a shot in his shoulder and a psychosomatic limp that gives him those ‘pity’ eyes from everyone that looks at him every time he goes out. He doesn’t want pity.

He can’t stand it.

He goes to his therapist once a week. The one assigned to him after he recovered from the bullet wound. She says he’s haunted by the war. John knows that even without her stating it. It’s obvious. The war appears in his nightmares every night. Guns. _Comrades_. Bullets. _Dying_. Shot. _Blood_.

Pain.  
 _Pain_.  
 ** _Pain_**.

 **Everywhere**.

A gasp. Sweat in his eyes. His hands shaking as he places an arm over his closed eyes, still hearing the gunshots from a place a long way away.  
She tells him to start a blog and write about his daily life, but ever since he returned to London “nothing happens to me.” And it’s true and he told her so. His bloody shoulder gives him shaking hands. The psychosomatic limp slows him down. He can no longer be a surgeon or go back to the war. He is a shell of himself, of the man he used to be.

After the therapist session, he went back to his small apartment and sat at his desk. He tried to come up with something interesting for his blog post, but instead he had a staring contest with his laptop for the past few hours. After coming up with nothing, he gave a frustrated sigh and with a short glance at his illegal gun in his top drawer, he decided to go out. Grabbing his cane, he left his little flat and ventured to the local bar. He drank a couple of beers, tried to pick up a few women but when they gave him with that pitying look, he excused himself and got another beer. After a few hours of limping away from the eyes of pity, he decided to go back to his flat. Entering the room, he angrily threw the cane on the floor and dropped onto his bed. He wanted human comfort. To cuddle and hug. John and his sister were not on good terms so asking her would be a huge ‘no,’ especially with her still being the party animal she is. Harry would laugh in his face. John could always go pick up a girl but he didn’t want to go through the same situation he experienced just a few moments ago. He also didn’t want to be in a relationship. He didn’t want to go through that part of her knowing his nightmares, of them having sex and her poor attempt of ignoring that scar tissue on his shoulder that looks like poison slowly spreading across his body. Of her judging him, placing him in her internal category of things that are ‘fragile’ and finally seeing _that_. That _look_ he has learned to detest with every fiber of his being. That look he will see everyday as she tries badly to hide it until he can no longer take it anymore and leave and go back to this routine life of sitting in front of his laptop alone. With those last thoughts, he finally drifted off to sleep, haunted by the blood of his comrades back in the hot desert of the battlefield.

The next night, John finds himself in front of 221 Baker Street. He woke up that morning with last night’s thoughts lingering in his mind and he began thinking how he could get the comfort he wanted without judgement and the complications of getting himself into a relationship. He came up with his answer but he didn’t want to dwell on it. He wasn’t that kind of man that went out to find these things but he’s reaching his limit. Who would have thought getting hugs were so hard? So without too much thought, he typed up the ‘idea’ on google and e-mailed the owner of the first website about his demands. After a few minutes he gets a reply from an ‘Irene Adler’ to go to the address she provided. And here he was. 221 Baker Street.

Before he lost his nerve, he knocked on the door. “Door’s unlocked, just come on up,” said the voice from above. When John looked up to the open second story window, no one was there. John opened the door, and slowly limped his way up the stairs. Bloody stairs. He opened the second door labelled 221B and found a man, fingers under his chin in a thinking position, lying on the sofa while staring at the ceiling. John looked around, there was a chemistry set in the kitchen, a skull on the mantlepiece and what looks like fingers in a beaker. John’s mind went to a halt.

"I think, uh, I might be in the wrong place," John slowly murmured, taking a step back towards the hall, already thinking of a quick escape route. "Sorry for the intrusion."

"Irene sent you, correct?," the man said, still looking up at the ceiling. John, feeling uncomfortable than ever, was starting to regret his decision. He couldn’t believe he was going to go through with this. John wanted to leave but he was a gentlemen and that meant being polite, even if that meant he had to stay with a man with fingers on his kitchen table.

"Yes."

"Then let’s get to it." The man suddenly got up from the coach, gliding towards John. Before John could even think, the man had gotten into John’s personal space, which was a feat among itself since John often noticed these things. He was a soldier but John was distracted by the blue and grey of the man’s eyes. He was captured by the shadows and lights playing across the stranger’s features that he didn’t notice the tall stranger’s mouth an inch away from John’s ear until he whispered, "And what is it that you’ll like?" John shivered, not sure if it’s because of his crave for human touch or the fact that the man’s voice felt like silk, rubbing against his skin. The man was whispering more things into his ear, slowly untying his robe, but John’s mind has yet to catch up. all John could think of was,

'Oh God'

_'Like silk-'_

'Did he just -?'

_'Perfection'_

'Is he-'

_'Riding crop?'_

'He is.'

"Oh god." John, coming back to his senses, pushed the stranger hastily to gain some space. "I mean, I didn’t think Irene would send me to a man. Wait, not the issue. Didn’t Irene tell you my request?" John said quickly, a blush slowly forming across his cheeks as his mind went on overdrive thinking of what the stranger was hinting just moments before.

"No," said the tall stranger, leaning against one of his armchairs, not looking a bit ruffled from John’s actions. "She only sends the most.." The man paused, narrowing his eyes as he scans John’s face, trying to figure him out. "..unusual ones to me." The man continues to look at John, and mutters, "I’ve never got one wrong before." After a long silence, the stranger stood up taller, if that was even possible. His expression was quickly clean of emotion, before settling to an eternal bored-like look. "So, what is it that you want?," the stranger demanded, looking annoyed, nothing like the seductive, predatory man that only appeared before John seconds before. "Do hurry up, I don’t have all day." The man continued, breaking John out of his thoughts.

"Well, I only wanted someone to share a bed with," John started to say and with a look at the man, he quickly added, "uh, not sexual, I just need human contact like hugs and stuff." As John said it out loud, he knew it sounded pathetic and also very strange.

Before the stranger could respond, police sirens filled the silence of the flat and a grey-haired man burst through the door.

"Where?," the tall stranger demands, walking towards the newcomer.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," said the man. John, feeling out of the loop, stood back and continued to watch as the two continued to converse.

"What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me if there wasn’t something different."

"You know how they don’t leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did." The tall stranger’s eyes seemed to shine at this.

"Who’s on forensics?"

"It’s Anderson." With the mention of that name, the tall stranger grimaced.

"Anderson an idiot, he can’t work as my assistant."

"Well, he’s won’t be your assistant."

"But I need an assistant." The tall stranger persisted. The older man ignored him and continued in a resigned tone.

"Will you come?"

"Yes, I’ll be right behind you in a taxi." And with that the older man left, the police sirens fading away back into silence. The tall stranger had started pacing back and forth, stopping to look back at John as if he was a new phenomenon. Like John hasn’t been in this flat for the past half an hour. The stranger seemed to buzz of excitement, fast walking to what John believed to be the man’s room. "You’re an army doctor," the tall stranger said, his voice muffled by the concrete walls.

"Sorry?" The stranger, emerging from his room wearing a crisp white shirt and dress pants, stopped in front of John and repeats his question.

"You are an army doctor, correct?"

"Yes but how-"

"Any good?" The man asked, cutting John short, putting on his wool coat.

"Yes."

"Seen lots of injuries, violent deaths."

"Yes."

"Hmm. Come with me." The tall stranger said, as he places a blue scarf around his neck.

"I barely know you or your name and you’re asking me to come with you to god knows where?," John asked.

"I know you’re an army doctor, and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan, most likely from the gunshot wound on your shoulder. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic which you and I know is correct." The man spoke, his hand on the frame of doorway. "Oh yes, the name’s Sherlock Holmes and I’m a consulting detective." And with that, the man walked out the door, leaving John behind.

John, still shocked by the information Sherlock had on him, looked back and forth from the empty doorway and his bloody cane. Damn leg. “Are you coming?” Sherlock’s voice cutting through John’s thoughts. With nothing to lose, John limped down the stairs towards the stranger that reminded John so much of the battlefield.


	2. The Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending some time with John at a crime scene, Sherlock becomes fascinated.

At the bottom of the stairs, a taxi with a Sherlock Holmes was waiting for John. After Sherlock sprouted off an address, they fell into a comfortable silence. John looked out the window, trying to figure out where they were. After a while, he gave up and starts to peek a few looks at Sherlock. The man really was beautiful. His eyes flashed green, blue, and gray in the streetlights passing. John wondered why a man such as Sherlock would prostitute himself for money. He looked like the kind of man that celebrities would want on their arm.

"You have questions." Sherlock said, with a small smile.

"Yes, why am I coming with you again?"

"There has been cases of multiple suicides happening, all of them swallowed the same poison. I believe they are murders. I need you as a medical expert."

"I see." John said, not really believing what’s happening at the moment. He came to Sherlock to ‘hang out’ with a prostitute, instead he is currently going to a crime scene with said prostitute. "So you consult on cases." Sherlock nodded.  
"When the police is out of their depth, which is always, they come for me for help."

"I didn’t know they allowed people outside the force to consult on cases," said John, the unspoken question of Sherlock’s other job being hinted in his tone. Sherlock caught it and glanced at the window before stating,

"I’m not just anyone nor does my other job influence my lifestyle." After another short silence, John spoke again.

"How did you know those things? About me I mean, how did you know I was an army doctor?"

"Obvious." Sherlock began, a glint in his eye as he spoke once more. "When you entered the room you noticed my experiment," John grimaced a bit. Sherlock, seeing his expression, nodded. "Yes, the fingers in the beaker, an experiment I’m doing on the use of certain chemicals and how it affects the rate of deterioration. When you noticed the fingers, your body got into a fighting stance while your eyes searched for possible exits. That’s instinct for someone who’s either in the security detail, police force or military. From the tan you’ve acquired, I’ll say military." From that, John looks down at himself with the lighting provided from the streetlights. He doesn’t see much of a tan. Sherlock noticing this added, "The tan that falls right at your wrist. Your arm is pale while your hands and face is deeply tanned. So not from a vacation, so military. Your psychosomatic limp is due to a traumatic experience. If you were in the military it would be because you were shot or someone was killed in front of you but most likely a gunshot wound. Every time you lean on your left, you have a more pained look on your face, more than a person should. So your wound must be on the left side. If you’re using a cane, the wound can’t be in your arms because it wouldn’t be able to stand your body weight when you’re using your cane so it must be the shoulder." John was in awe.

"Amazing!"

"Really?" Sherlock was skeptic and fascinated. No one reacted this way before. "People don’t usually say that."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off." And with that the two men who were strangers to each other only a few moments ago, laughed in the backseat of a cab as if they’ve been friends for a lifetime.

—-

The taxi stopped and the two got out, heading towards the police tape. A woman comes up to Sherlock and sneers, “He’s waiting for you upstairs.” She noticed John and added, “And who’s this?”

"My assistant." Sherlock said, continuing to walk towards the building that held the crime scene and John followed.

—-

Pink.

Taxi.

Pill.

Choice.

Gunshot.

 _Moriarty_.

—-

A man holding an umbrella stands a few feet away, watching the crime scene.

"Looks like Sherlock got himself a new pet."

—-

After the case, John followed Sherlock back to Baker St. "I'm exhausted. Can I borrow your coach for the night?"

"Are we not going to share the same bed?," asked Sherlock. With that sentence, John's brain woke up. He had forgot. The adrenaline, the case, the kidnapping had made him forget his reason in meeting Sherlock in the first place. 

"Uh… Yeah." John answered, unsure of how to proceed. An awkward pause occurred before John asked, "So how would this work?"

"Well, you mentioned you only wanted non-sexual contact. So I suggest we sleep in the same bed, cuddling, as you mentioned before and test that before we proceed."

"That seems… reasonable," said John. "How much do I owe you?" John didn't forget Sherlock's other profession and that his services cost money.

"No need for payment. You did shoot a man for me after all."

—-

Sherlock pulled off his shirt, getting ready for bed.

"Um.." Sherlock turned to face John as he placed his shirt onto a hanger.

"What is it John."

"I, uh.. I like to be the little spoon." John muttered quickly, his cheeks colored red in embarrassment. If Sherlock wasn't watching John's lips, he would have missed it. Sherlock, noticing that John was slightly shaking, decided to try to make the mood a bit lighter.

"Hm. Makes sense given your...stature"

"Hey. I killed a man okay? Don't look down on me." John said jokingly as Sherlock pulled back the covers and got into bed. John stood by, his nervousness still keeping him frozen in place. Sherlock grabbed John by the wrist and pulled him into bed, his chest meeting John's back and wrapped his arms around John's waist, tangling his legs with John's. John, feeling Sherlock's warmth crawling over his skin, relaxed.

"Go to sleep John."

"Okay."

After a few minutes, John fell asleep. Sherlock kept his arms wrapped about John, nudging himself closer to John until his nose met John's neck. Sherlock fell asleep to the smell of gunpowder, sweat and the faint scent of tea.

That night, John wasn't haunted by the battlefield of Afghanistan as he was wrapped in the warmth of Sherlock's arms.

—-

The next morning, Sherlock got out of bed, quietly, not wanting to wake up John. He picked up his phone on his bedside table and sent a text to Irene as he made his way to the living room.

 _Why did you give me this job?  
_ _\- SH_

_I thought you would like the unusual request. You constantly demanded the ‘interesting’ ones._

_He’s not gay._  
\- SH

_Now that wouldn’t matter, now would it?_

_Unless you like him._

Sherlock put his phone away after reading Irene’s text. He found the idea of romance to be ridiculous. The idea of loving someone to the extent of consider the idea of sacrificing their life to save another is utterly preposterous. The emotion hinders the ability to make rational decisions and he rather delete the very word ‘love’ altogether from his brain but the emotion is a common motivator for crime and murder, and so, has a small place in his vast mind palace.

Sitting in his regular position on the sofa, he began to get bored. The conclusion of last night’s case has his mind running, unable to rest. Of course, he knew that he had picked the right pill. No question about it. He knew he was right. But John. John. No crime scene or anything in the world will fascinate him more than John.


End file.
